


Never After

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: There are those few, however, who remain to this day offended by the very sight of one who does not possess magic, or merely one who possesses it by chance. And then there are those torn between family and desire, tradition and love, morals and fate.





	Never After

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

I have never been the most widely regarded of portraits, perhaps. Merlin knows there are far too many incarnations of wizards and witches who walked these halls for every passerby to acknowledge them, but I have never been a particular favorite among the students. 

Certain wizards have given rise to the belief that all portraits retain the qualities and personality of those they are painted for. Alas, not so. It is only the powerful and celebrated that are granted such an honor. I was painted in the middle of the twelfth century to resemble the daughter of a particularly favored headmaster named Fortescue. She was no great beauty, but very sweet and loved by all. Perhaps it is because of my demure appearance that so few have spared a glance my way, but let me assure you that just because I appear diminutive and small in no way means that I really am. I simply have preferred to spend my days in observation of those who walk up the staircase I hang next to. 

Portraits do not sleep. I am well aware that the portraits that reside in the headmaster's office often employ this ruse when attempting to eavesdrop (for the life of me I cannot understand why they do not simply appear to look politely interested - it is not as though the witches and wizards whom they listen to really are fooled), but it is not so. I myself spend the hours in darkness allowing the more intriguing of the scenes I have witnessed in my many centuries of observance to unfold before me. 

A pair of ginger-haired twin boys are dragged by the ear by a harassed, plump, older girl...a young boy, not for the first time, tries to convince his three friends that his mother suddenly took ill, and he must visit her...a Quidditch team with mud on them from head to toe and vigor in their eyes is swept past by a gold and red crowd, a cheering young lady at the head...in the middle of the night, the same woman - far older now - hurries a teenage boy with glasses down the hall, helped by another ginger-haired one and looking far more concerned than I have ever seen. Both boys look far too familiar. But I have seen so many walk these halls it gets hard to keep the faces from swimming into each other.

I have almost no memory for the early days. Adolescents were ever so much less intriguing than they are now, determined to remain the picture of perfect breeding, set on showing up one another with their wealth and heritage. Bloodlines became diluted through the centuries, and very few magic folk set store by it anymore. There are those few, however, who remain to this day offended by the very sight of one who does not possess magic, or merely one who possesses it by chance. And then there are those torn between family and desire, tradition and love, morals and fate.

Which reminds me...

They have been past my portrait many times before, the dark young woman and the boy with sandy hair and an eagle on his robes. Always the same argument. They have had this row so many times that their words become shortened, their phrases choppy, yet they know what the other is saying.

"We can't keep this up. Not forever."

"Of course not forever."

"But when can we - "

"Not yet."

"When?"

"When it's time."

"It's time now."

"Not yet."

"Yes."

"Now."

"No!"

"Soon, then. You can't hide forever."

"Hide? From what?"

"You know."

And so it went. Always the same argument, always the same passion. But one evening, something was different. I could sense it in their voices. They were both upset, both for the same reason, both in their own way. As it always went.

"It's not for the wrong reasons."

"Then let me do it, then I'll consider it."

"What!?"

"Prove to me it's not because of her."

"I won't let you get rid of her just so you're sure this proposal isn't a fluke."

"I won't agree until you do."

"Look, I shouldn't have to prove this to you. Weren't the past two years proof enough?"

"I'm not saying they weren't wonderful. They were. It...it's not about that."  
"Well then tell me...why can't you take my word on this? Why can't you trust me?"

Though short, the silence that came after was awful. I considered going to visit someone, leaving them in peace. But I could not. I had to see how she would respond. But it was the boy again who spoke.

"Oh. I see."

"No, wait - "

"I guess it wasn't enough. I thought you were different. I thought you saw past that prejudice two years ago in Hogsmeade, and when you...we..." His eyes lingered at her naval far too long for my comfort. His face hardened.

"All this time we were meeting in secret, I thought we were hiding from your sisters, your Slytherin friends. I didn't realize it was from everyone else, too, at least until you could figure out for yourself whether the stories your parents always fed you about people like me were true or not."

"How could you - "

"Well? Are the stories true? Tell me, I'm just dying to know what you - "

It was all a blur after that. All I know is that within seconds they were locked at the jaw, it seemed, and there was no sign of letting up. He was running his fingers through her black hair and from the little I could see of her face, it looked like, given her choice, she would never willingly pull away. As it always went. They did eventually break apart, but only long enough for him to say, "It's not because you're pregnant that I want to marry you - I love you, and I would rather see you estranged than alone for the rest of your life."

I never saw them again. 


End file.
